


Edible Arrangements

by CoffeeStars



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Hilly the Tadpole (OMC), Jack is probably a sugar daddy, M/M, POV Outsider, i almost spelled "rushing a frat" as "rushing a fart", tadpole shenanigans, the lax team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7589422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoffeeStars/pseuds/CoffeeStars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hilly knows a couple things as a tadpole. He knows there’s probably a lax bro hitting on him, and that Bitty’s super-secret boyfriend may or may not be a middle-aged lumberjack sugar daddy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Hilly knows a few things about Samwell’s hockey dynamics. He knows he is a tadpole; he initially expects to be hazed to the ground and forced to eat dog food or something like his roommate, who is currently rushing a frat. He expects the Haus to be dirty and filled to the brim with red cups and sticky floorboards. He also knows not to hang out with the lax team because Ransom and Holster said so, even though a cute boy who he thinks is from the lax team winked at him in his Intro to Anthropology class. He knows that NHL’s very own Jack Zimmermann, son of ‘Bad Bob’ Zimmermann and legendary hockey extraordinaire, is a Samwell alumni, and had slept in the very room which Chowder, their goalie, currently inhabits.    
  
But Hazeapalooza turns out to be nothing as bad as he expects (he even gets homemade pie out of it, even if Holster gives him the side-eye). And the Haus is cleaner than a sports frat house should be. The hockey team is nice (and surprisingly socially aware) and Hilly likes Samwell fair enough, but he misses home sometimes.  
  
But Bitty makes things better. Hilly likes Bitty a lot. He likes hanging around the Haus and watching Bitty roll pastry dough with a practiced, methodical hand because it reminds him of how his mom used to bake cookies for him and his sister. Bitty doesn’t mind too much (he thinks) that Hilly may want to go on a date with a lax bro. Bitty bakes him peach cobbler with crumbles toasted a golden brown and talks about his family’s jam recipes. Bitty is open and warm and welcoming. However, the one thing Bitty doesn’t talk much about is his boyfriend.

One time, Hilly answers the door for Bitty (“Oh, honey, could you get that for me please? I’m up to my elbows in flour”) when the doorbell rings. He puts his calculus homework down and goes to the door, where he is greeted by a delivery boy with the hugest bundle of roses Hilly’s ever seen in his life.  
  
“I have a special delivery for a, uh, Mr. Bittle?” the delivery boy says. He looks like he’s a high-schooler doing a part-time gig.  
  
“I can take it,” Hilly says, and cradles the monstrous rose bouquet back to the kitchen.  
  
“Good Lord,” is Bitty’s first response. “Tell me that’s not from the lax bro you’ve been telling me about.”  
  
“Oh, it’s not for me,” Hilly explains, and reads the tag, “‘To Bits, all my love and more. Thinking about you every day’—it’s got some French here, I can’t read it. But it’s signed ‘J.’”  
  
“Oh!” Bitty turns a bright red. He scans the note and mutters, “Oh, this boy. Thank you, Hilly, give it over here and I’ll—I’ll, um, find a vase. Vases.”  
  
Hilly finds him some empty beer bottles from the recycling and cleans the labels off so Bitty can put the flowers in. He places a bottle in the kitchen, one in the living room, and one in each of the bedrooms. When that’s done, Bitty goes back to kneading the dough, smiling every once in a while.  
  
“Is ‘J’ your boyfriend?” Hilly asks.  
  
“Huh?” Bitty’s head jerks up, as if he had forgotten Hilly was still there. “Um, yes, that’s my boyfriend.”  
  
“Does he go to Samwell?”  
  
“He—he used to,” Bitty stammers. “We’re long distance, so he does this once in a while.”  
  
“Oh.” Hilly scratches an answer down on binder paper. “That sucks. I mean, it’s cool that he sends you stuff, but long distance sucks.”      
  
“Hopefully we won’t be soon,” Bitty says.  
  
Hilly is silent for a moment.  
  
“What’s he like?” he asks.  
  
“Lord, aren’t you just like Tango with all these questions,” Bitty says, but he doesn’t sound angry. “Well, let’s see. Um. He’s very tall. He’s a little scary sometimes, but he’s very kind and patient. He’s amazing with kids. He’s passionate with whatever he’s doing and…and um…” Bitty pauses. “He’s…gentle.”  
  
“Ew,” Hilly says.  
  
“Not like that, get your head out of the gutter,” Bitty laughs. “You asked.”  
  
“I was hoping for a name and how you met, not how he is in bed. It’s like listening to your mom giving you the talk.”  
  
“Okay, fine. I can’t give you a name, because Ransom and Holster will never let me hear the end of it.” Bitty lowers his voice, “You know how they are with other people’s relationships. Did I ever tell you how they made a spreadsheet of every eligible guy I could take to Spring C _and_ Winter Screw?”  
  
“I get it,” Hilly promises. “I won’t ask for a name.”  
  
Over the next five weeks, Bitty receives four Edible Arrangements, two more giant bouquets, and a box of expensive baking chocolates. Hilly eats a quarter of the edible arrangements (Bitty bemoans the tragedy that is canned fruit) and helps fold chocolates into Bitty’s croissants as he ponders the identity of this ‘J.’ Bitty hardly tells him any more solid descriptors, but through the power of deductive reasoning and pieces of accidentally spilled information, Hilly concludes that ‘J’ is French Canadian, probably either an athlete or a lumberjack (athlete-lumberjack?), and that he likes PB&Js. It isn’t much to go off on, but Bitty’s boyfriend seems like a nice enough guy (or, at least, generous enough to blow big money on gifts every week—Hilly asked Bitty once if ‘J’ was actually his sugar daddy and Bitty laughed himself silly for a good ten minutes) and they seem to really like each other. He doesn’t mention ‘J’ to anyone else in the Haus, because he notices that Bitty freezes up every time Ransom or Holster brings it up at dinner.  
  
“Hey, man,” Ransom says to him. “Does Bitty ever talk to you about his boyfriend? Like, is he real?”  
  
“He’s real,” Hilly says.  
  
“Dude, does he tell you anything about who he is though?”  
  
“We only want the best for our Bitty,” Holster says. “Also, Rans and I made a second spreadsheet, now including _incoming_ transfers—”  
  
“Nah, Bitty doesn’t say much,” Hilly says truthfully, and spears another cantaloupe off the Edible Arrangement. 

* * *

  
The week before finals week, Jack Zimmermann comes to visit.  
  
Hilly goes to the Haus after class, so he misses the homecoming and the part where Chowder jumped on Zimmermann and Zimmermann had to drop everything, including his water bottle, to catch him. Zimmermann is as tall and imposing (and handsome) as he is in the interviews, clad in a red flannel shirt, and when he shakes Hilly’s hand, he gets the feel of Serious Dad crossed with Awkward Teenager, which is strange but interesting. The tadpoles all fawn over Jack and make him sign at least five pucks and three jerseys. Hilly helps Bitty prepare a ridiculous amount of food for dinner that night, but he realizes that Bitty’s hanging back from the crowd surrounding Zimmermann in the living room on the nasty green couch, always near, but slightly hesitant. As Hilly turns to look at Zimmermann, their gazes connect and he realizes that Zimmermann is looking in their direction with a rather displeased expression. What the hell.    
  
“Did he do something to you?” Hilly bursts out, as he slices a cucumber.  
  
“What?” Bitty’s stirring something in the Dutch oven before popping it into the actual oven. “Who are you talking about?”  
  
Hilly lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “Zimmermann. Was he an ass to you or something?”  
  
“Good Lord, where’d you get that idea?”  
  
“You don’t seem to like to be around him too much,” Hilly admits. “You know, I don’t care if he’s some NHL superstar, but if he bullied you or something when he was still in Samwell, you know I can—” He can’t fight Zimmermann, probably. Being in the NHL must’ve bulked him up to hockey Batman levels, even if Hilly is over 6 feet. He feels like he is 7, before his parents got divorced, being mad at himself when he sees the bruises bloom on his mother’s arm where there hadn’t been any the night before. “—I’ll be there for you.”  
  
“Oh, honey, no,” Bitty says, putting a hand on Hilly’s elbow. “You’re awful sweet, but that won’t be necessary. Jack and I aren’t on bad terms.”  
  
“But he keeps glaring at us.”  
  
Bitty turns, but Jack has already ducked his head down.  
  
“His face just looks like that,” Bitty says, and Hilly stifles a snort. “Don’t tell him I said that. He’s sensitive.”  
  
“Big successful hockey player, right, he’s sensitive,” Hilly says absently, but Bitty frowns.  
  
“Why don’t you call the other boys that dinner’s ready,” Bitty says, and says no more.  
  
Hilly finds out that Jack Zimmermann is capable of demolishing an entire half chicken during the meal.

* * *

  
They don’t have a kegster that night, but the Haus still manages to pass out in the living room after a couple cans of Natty Light and Bitty’s Southern cooking. Hilly wakes up with Nursey’s foot on his shoulder ( _how?_ ) and gingerly detaches himself from the dogpile when he remembers that he has a quiz in two days that he hadn’t started to study for. He’s in the process of collecting his shoes and jacket when he notices that the kitchen light is still on, the soft clacking of a knife on a plate and Bitty’s voice emitting just low enough to go undetected by unconscious hockey players.  
  
“—thought you were bullying me,” Bitty is saying. “He’s got a big heart, like Holster.”  
  
“Who, Hill?” Zimmermann’s voice, sounding oddly soft. “Is he the one—”  
  
“Helping me with dinner, yes. He made the potato salad today, did you know? Said it was his momma’s recipe. I ought to get it from him some day, don’t think I didn’t see you eating a quarter of it tonight.”  
  
“…I didn’t.”  
  
“Of course not. Now, try this one and tell me if you like it better than the peach.”  
  
Hilly inches closer towards the kitchen, making sure to avoid the steps that creak, and sees Bitty holding a spoonful of something that looked like peanut butter and jam in front of Zimmermann’s face. To his surprise, Zimmermann obediently tries the offering and smacks his lips.  
  
“The peach is still better,” he says, after a few seconds of consideration.  
  
“Then I’ll use it for your next game,” Bitty says. “I think I’ve told you before, but I’ve honestly never seen someone eat PB&J and look as serious as you do.”  
  
Hilly hadn’t thought that Zimmermann’s face could contort into anything other than his focused on-the-ice grimace, but the curve of Zimmermann’s lips go upwards, and his entire face seems to light up.  
  
“Come here,” he says, and reaches out to loop an arm around Bitty’s waist. “I missed you,” he says into Bitty’s neck. “Hate it when I come home and you’re not there.”  
  
Bitty’s returning smile is warm and content. He takes Zimmermann’s face, cupping it and turning it at an angle.  
  
“The scar’s healing,” he huffs, scrutinizing Zimmermann’s chin. “That’s good.”  
  
“Kiss it better?” Zimmermann says, still grinning.  
  
“I think you’re all better at this point, Mr. Zimmermann—” Bitty muffles a small surprised yelp as Zimmermann suddenly scoops him into his lap, kissing him deeply.  
  
Hilly’s eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. Meanwhile, Bitty returns the kiss just as enthusiastically, and finally sighs. “Lord, I did miss you so much.”  
  
Zimmermann rests his head on Bitty’s forehead. “Did you get the flowers?”  
  
“I did,” Bitty mutters. “I’ve been meaning to tell you to quit it with those. Just because I said no fancy kitchen stuff doesn’t mean I want you to switch to bouquets.”  
  
“You don’t like them?” Zimmermann looks not disappointed, strangely, but contemplative.  
  
“I _love_ them,” Bitty adds quickly. “I know what you’re thinking, you are not going to stop it with the Edible Arrangements and mail me something else. I don’t want you spending so much money on me.”  
  
“I want to give you things,” Zimmermann says, pressing a kiss along Bitty’s jaw with every word. “I like seeing you happy.”  
  
“Enough, Romeo, you just want to hear me say that you make me happy. And you do,” Bitty titters. “You know Hilly?”  
  
“Yes, potato salad Hilly, whom you mentioned six minutes ago.”  
  
“Yes, him—wait, was that a chirp? Don’t laugh at me, it’s hard to tell sometimes. Anyways, there’s someone on the lax team who’s trying to flirt with him in class, isn’t that funny?”  
  
“Have Holster and Rans check him out.”  
  
“Honestly, you are just as bad as those two. And, and—listen to this, we took your chocolates the other day and made croissants out of them. Holster tried to cram six of them in his mouth at the same time and Chowder almost had to try the Heimlich maneuver on him.”  
  
“Jesus.”  
  
“I think I’ll take the rest and make the chocolate pecan pie that Lardo likes so much.”  
  
“Do you mean _pecan_?”  
  
“Don’t you start with me now—”        
  
Hilly is in the middle of backing up carefully when he steps on the creaky floorboard. Bitty and Jack immediately swivel around, eyes wide in panic.  
  
“I—” Hilly squeaks, after five seconds of silent staring that feel like a lifetime. “I was just—thirst? Uh, water?” He clears his throat. “I’m going to leave.”  
  
“Wait, Hilly—”  
  
“I won’t tell, I promise, it’s just—wow—‘J’ is— _wow_ , this is like finding out Brad Pitt is dating your mom. Wait, does that mean Jack Zimmermann is—is he _dad_?”  
  
“What,” Jack says.  
  
“Oh, inside joke, like Bitty reminds me of my mom, and you’re dad because you two are, uh—I can just go. Thanks for the fruit and the chocolate, I mean I know it’s for Bitty but I ate a lot of it. I really appreciate it. You two are great together, good night—”  
  
He manages to not stumble over his shoelaces on the front porch.

* * *

  
Hilly answers the door once again in two weeks, where he is greeted with another delivery boy.  
  
“What is this?” Hilly asks.  
  
“It’s from Providence, that’s all I know, man,” the delivery boy says. “Look, I gotta make more deliveries before three or my boss will be on my ass again.”  
  
“Bitty,” he calls into the Haus, “it’s for yo—” He flips the tag over. “Uh.”  
  
The tag says, in neatly printed script: _To Hilly, from Dad._  
  
“Uh,” he says again, and opens the box, revealing a row of chocolate croissants.  
  
“What’s that?” Bitty peers in the box, then turns the note around. “What the—oh, I swear, he has the weirdest sense of humor.”  
  
At least Zimmerman has stopped glaring at him from the nasty green couch when he comes over, Hilly thinks, as he stuffs a croissant into his mouth.  
  
“Holy shit, these are good.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hilly just wants to go on a normal date. 
> 
> (BONUS CHAPTER ft. Ransom+Holster, Jack who can't keep it in his pants, and Brady the Lax Bro)

“Hey, Elliot,” Hilly’s boyfriend says from the bench, as Hilly walks over and bends down to kiss him. “Elli. Elli my Wellie. How was practice?”  
  
“The lax team’s nicknaming skills remain ever subpar,” Hilly says, and settles in with his coffee and laptop. “And practice was fine.”  
  
“Were Ronson and Hooters on your case again about me?” his boyfriend says, nudging Hilly on the arm.  
  
“I know you know their names, Brady.” Hilly rolls his eyes. “And no, I didn’t say you were from the lax team.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“I said I met you in Intro to Ceramics. That you were doing some pretty edgy shit to pottery and gave me a clay dick to show your interest. I mean, it’s not a reach from how you really asked me out anyways.”  
  
(Brady had, after being goaded by his teammates once the Anthro professor finished her lecture, gone directly to Hilly, who had been stowing away his notebook so he could head to the Haus to finish his essay.  
  
“Hey, baby,” Brady had spewed out, filled with a sense of false bravado and sheer panic as he hoped he sounded somewhat slick. “That ass is a masterpiece. Wanna get coffee sometime?”  
  
Hilly had just stared.  
  
“Ew,” he had said, promptly picking up his backpack and headed for the door.  
  
It was only until they met again at Annie’s and two caramel lattes later on Brady’s card did Hilly agree to date Brady.)  
  
“Damn, talk dirty to me, Hill,” Brady snickers, and tries to put his arm around Hilly as he croons, “ _Ohh, my love, my darling, I’ve hungered for—_ ”  
  
“Stop it!” Hilly laughs. “Don’t you have to leave for practice soon?”  
  
“Eh.” Brady shrugs. “I got fifteen minutes. We can play Pokémon Go and make out in between.”  
  
They walk around South Quad and Founder’s, collecting three Rattatas with Hilly consoling Brady for losing a Pikachu around the post office. The whole walk severely lacks the promised make outs as Brady gets more absorbed.   
  
“You know,” Hilly begins, shoving his hand into his pocket. “I think the Haus is empty right now. Bitty has French and Rans and Holster went to get burgers.”  
  
“Okay?” Brady flicks a Pokéball absently.  
  
“Chowder’s not home ‘til five and Lardo’s shutting herself in the workshop ‘til like…ten or something tonight.”  
  
“Seriously, what the hell is up with these nicknames? And you don’t even live in the house.”  
  
“Haus,” Hilly says, as if he can sense the difference in Brady’s pronunciation. “So you’re telling me you don’t want me to blow you on the couch.”  
  
Brady pauses.  
  
“That’s…not what I said,” he manages.  
  
Hilly grabs his hand and pulls.  
  
“Okay, cool,” he says. “I mainly have to pee so I wanna stop there.”  
  
“Classy.”

* * *

  
  
The key is under a doormat with a pie logo, which Brady finds highly unoriginal.  
  
“Quit whining,” Hilly says, creaking the door open. “I’m probably committing treason just by letting you on the porch— _OH GOD._ ”  
  
Hilly catches a glimpse of Jack Zimmermann hoisting Bitty up against the wall in the hallway, the difference in height between the two stark as they kissed, before shutting the door immediately. Hilly tries to forget the image of Bitty tangling his fingers in Jack’s hair and wrapping his legs around Jack’s waist, but he thinks it’s probably seared into his memories forever.  
  
“ _What_? What is it?” Brady sounds highly alarmed as he looks up from his phone. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“I—” Hilly stammers. “I actually don’t want to pee anymore! Let’s get food.”  
  
“Are you sure?” Brady asks, concerned. “One of my teammates held in his pee once and it crystallized or something.”  
  
“Could you, like, maybe keep some things to yourself sometimes?” Hilly shakes his head. “Never mind. Can we just go in the opposite direction—”  
  
“Hey! Hey, Hilly! Are you trying to get in?”  
  
Hilly flinches as he turns around, facing Ransom, who is walking down the sidewalk with five bags of what looks to be takeout burgers in his arms. Holster is close behind, with three more bags in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other.  
  
“We bought food for everyone. They had a promotion: five burgers for three bucks. Rans and I bought twenty,” Holster says, in between bites of his cone. He grips the edges of the waffle cone with his teeth and motions for Hilly to take one out of the bag he is currently holding. “Don’t say your captains never did anything for you.”  
  
“Oh,” Hilly says nervously, not moving, “I’d never—”  
  
“Who is this?” Ransom pipes up, making no obviously move to hide the fact that he’s scrutinizing Brady up and down like a lab specimen.  
  
“This is, um, this is my boyfriend.” Hilly does not shove Brady an inch forward as he moves awkward behind him. “This is Brady. Brady, this is Ransom and Holster.”  
  
“Oh, ‘swawesome. Ransom,” Ransom says, juggling his bags to one side and holding out his hand. “That’s Holster. And you’re Brady from ceramics.”  
  
“Uh, yes,” Brady says, unconvincingly. “Yes I am. Brady Fawkes. I love pottery.”  
  
But Ransom cocks his head to one side.  
  
“Wait, I’ve seen you before,” he says slowly.  
  
“No you haven’t,” Hilly cuts in.  
  
“Yeah, no, I’ve definitely seen you. You were in my…OChem class? Physics?”  
  
Hilly had used to think sweat-dropping was a thing that only happened in cartoons and sitcoms, along with walking in on his pseudo-parents making out in their frat house and being accosted by friends.  
  
“He hangs out with a lot of art people,” Hilly says. “Real hip. You’ve probably seen him with Lardo or something.”  
  
Hilly ignores the mouthed “What?” that Brady sends in his direction.  
  
“Hm, okay.” Ransom shuffles his weight to the other foot. “Your last name is Fox? That’s cool.”  
  
“Yeah.” Brady suddenly gives an uncomfortable laugh. “Like Guy Fawkes.”  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Ransom says. “I thought it was like the animal—”  
  
“Me, too,” Holster says from behind his ice cream.  
  
“I got it!” Ransom shouts. Hilly’s heart nearly stops. “Are you related to Brandon Fawks? He’s from Lardo’s art thing with the hand sculptures—”  
  
“No, man,” Holster interjects. “That’s Fawks without an ‘e.’ Like multiple birds, fawks—”  
  
“Do you mean hawk?” Brady says.  
  
“—And nah, dude, I’m pretty sure he’s a lax bro—”  
  
“I don’t th—”  
  
“ _HA_!” Hilly howls, two pitches too high and slightly louder than he’d wanted it to come out. All three heads turn towards him. “That’s crazy, that’s—that’s a good joke. That’s hilarious. And gross. I would never. Brady, a lax bro? He hates running. Look at him.”  
  
“What about me?” Brady says, sounding a little hurt.  
  
“Nothing!” Hilly says quickly. “Nothing. You’re great. The best.”  
  
Holster raises an eyebrow.  
  
“I was talking about Brandon Fawks,” he explains.  
  
“Oh.” Hilly takes Brady’s hand. “Well, it was really nice meeting y’all—uh, I mean, you guys. We’re gonna go get food now—”  
  
“No, but we bought you food, you didn’t take—” Holster makes a move to reach into the takeout bag, but drops a dollop of ice cream on his shirt in the process. “Aw, shit.”  
  
“It’s okay, bro,” Ransom says. “You can borrow my shirt.”  
  
“I don’t want the salmon one.”  
  
“How many times do I have to tell you, I _don’t_ have salmon shirts,” Ransom grouses, as he reaches into his pocket for the Haus keys.  
  
“ _NO!_ ” Hilly bursts out, then lowers his voice when he realizes that he’d basically screamed it at Ransom’s face. He thinks of Bitty and Jack inside the hallway, doing the unspeakable. “Sorry! I mean, you shouldn’t.”  
  
Ransom’s eyebrows scrunches up. “Wait, why?”  
  
“I…need to…” He glances around, as if the answer is written on the chipping paint. “…pee,” he finishes lamely.  
  
Holster squints. “So?”  
  
“Dude, we live here,” Ransom says flatly.  
  
“I get nervous when I pee if I know there are people nearby,” Hilly says, the words jumbling together.  
  
Holster blinks.  
  
“…so like,” Holster says, “…have you not peed since coming to college?”  
  
“That’s not healthy,” Ransom adds, as he bites into a burger.  
  
“But you just said you didn’t—” Brady starts.  
  
“ _I know what I said._ ” Hilly tries to not hyperventilate. He’s trapped between Ransom and Holster on one side, and outing Jack and Bitty on the other. He wants to believe that the situation can’t get any worse, but all he can think of is this and the fact that his pee may be crystallizing right this moment. “I—I, uh—”  
  
Ransom moves forward to put a steady hand on Hilly’s shoulder. “Dude, are you sick? You’re sweating a lot.”  
  
“It’s because he hasn’t _peed in months_ , Rans,” Holster supplies. “I’m an Econ major and even I know that.”  
  
“That’s unlikely—”  
  
Brady takes Hilly’s hand, growing increasingly concerned. “Babe, what’s going—”  
  
But by a struck of good fortune (or terrible luck, depending on whose side you were on), they suddenly hear a shout from across the street.  
  
“Hey, isn’t that Brady with his boyfriend?” says a guy carrying lacrosse sticks. The four men following him look towards the Haus. “Hey, Fawkes. _BRADY FAWKES._ Date’s over! You’re late for practice!” he yells.  
  
Time slows in Hilly’s mind as Ransom and Holster swivel back to him. He is ready for imminent death by his captains, if he doesn’t melt onto the porch first. Ransom’s jaw drops, and he points a threatening finger at Brady.  
  
“ _YOU—”_  
  
Hilly shoves Brady back and moves between the finger and Brady.  
  
“ _NO!”_ Hilly says, completely freaking out at this point. “ _NO, NO, NO—”_  
  
The Haus door finally opens from the inside, and Bitty darts out, his expression livid. Jack follows close behind, looking sheepish.  
  
“What in the world is _going on_?” he screeches. “I can literally hear you from upstairs!”  
  
Hilly says the first thing that comes to his mind when he sees Jack, “ _Dad_? –Fuck, no, sorry, forget I said that—”  
  
“Holy hell,” Brady says, staring at Jack in awe. “I saw you on TV. Aren’t you Jac—”  
  
“ _Jack_?” Ransom yelps. “ _What the fuck?_ You didn’t tell us you were visiting?”  
  
Jack looks around and puts his hands up, “…surprise?”  
  
Ransom and Holster drop the bags and jump onto Jack at the same time (“Good lord!”) and during the commotion, Hilly hurries and kisses Brady.  
  
“Go to practice,” he says. “Hurry! Go, go go!”  
  
“Okay, love you, babe,” Brady says, leaning in for one more peck before joining his teammates, who are catcalling and whistling.  
  
“Love yo—wait.” Hilly stops. “You do?”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
Hilly waves him off, biting a smile. “Never mind.”  
  
“Alright. I’ll pick you up tomorrow for lunch!” he calls from the other side of the street.  
  
Hilly is waving when the notices that the impromptu wrestling-noogie match has quieted down behind him.  
  
“Hilly,” Holster says, low and betrayed. “Are you dating a _lax bro?_ ”  
  
“Correction,” Ransom interrupts dangerously. “He _was_ dating a lax bro. Right, Hilly?”  
  
“Aw,” Bitty says. “You should’ve invited him in for pie.”  
  
“ _No, Bitty_ —” Ransom says.  
  
“Is there pie though,” Holster asks.  
  
“I…I still have to pee.”  
  
“Jack!” Ransom turns to Jack, protesting. “Our taddy has been corrupted by the lax team! Can’t you hear Shitty scream from Cambridge? He has to be court-martialed!”  
  
“$50 into the sin bin! With interest,” Holster crows, then stops to think before adding, “And he has to make potato salad every Sunday.”  
  
Bitty rolls his eyes and huffs, “Holster, I’m pretty sure I saw _you_ leave the lax house last Wednesday—”  
  
“ _That is unimportant and irrelevant_.”  
  
“ _Jack_ ,” Ransom commands. “What say you?”  
  
Jack blinks.  
  
“He says he has to pee,” he says. “Hill, you’re really sweaty. Do you want to take off your jacket?”  
  
Fifty dollars (Jack contributes forty dollars on the sly, after Bitty explains the situation to him, with an apologetic look) and three batches of potato salad later, Hilly swears up and down that he sees Ransom and Holster staring at him from the bushes whenever he’s out with Brady.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on tumblr at nomorelonelydays :)
> 
> (EXTRA - Holster: "Oh cool, more croissants. Your dad sent you these, Hilly?"  
> Hilly: "Kinda."  
> Holster: "Can I have some?"  
> Hilly: "Okay, but don't take six at a ti—okay, you took six at a time.")


End file.
